


The Mystery Spot

by moonblossom



Series: Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Blow Jobs, Awkward Sexual Situations, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Misunderstandings, Porn Video, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a case, Sherlock has to watch a pornographic video with a frustratingly familiar face in it. What starts out as a curious attempt to confirm or deny the identity of the actor turns into much more than he bargained for, but ends up being exactly what he needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mystery Spot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xtooline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xtooline/gifts).



> Written for Xtooline who won li’l ole me in the fundraiser auction. :) Huge thanks to [provocatrixxx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/provocatrixxx) for the speedy beta, and [esterbrook](http://archiveofourown.org/users/esterbrook) for the conversation that resulted in the original plotbunny, and Mr. Monster for the line of conversation that resulted in the title. Please note, this is not in any way a fusion with a particular episode of Supernatural. It’s just... a mystery about a spot.
> 
> This is also the first full fic (not a drabble or a ficlet or anything) that I have written since my brain surgery, just over a month ago. All things considered, I am quite proud of it.

Sherlock saunters into Lestrade's office with the world-weary air of someone who thinks he has somewhere better to be. Sinking into a chair, he nods at the DI, encouraging him to talk because Sherlock himself can't be bothered to. Unfortunately, Lestrade's being more observant than usual, because the first thing he comments on is John, conspicuous in his absence.

"Piss him off enough that he's abandoned you, then?"

Sherlock huffs. "He's out. With another insufferable woman."

Greg nods sympathetically. "What's she like?"

"I've no idea, nor do I care." Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "I haven't met her."

"How do you know she's insufferable, then?"

Sherlock shrugs. Aren't they always insufferable? He doesn't bother to answer Greg's question.

"Alright, fine, keep it to yourself and be sulky. It's probably for the best he isn't here right now, anyway."

Something about the way he says that, almost lasciviously, grabs Sherlock's attention.

"We found another video starring the vic." The victim of the murder they're currently looking into. Who just happened to be -- before his untimely demise -- an adult film actor. Sherlock's already watched a third of his catalogue, looking for clues, and found the entire process distasteful and awkward. He's not looking forward to having to review another.

"Can't you just watch it yourself?" He scowls, brow furrowing. Lestrade, damn him, just chuckles.

"Oh, I have. Trust me, this one's _different._ "

Sherlock merely raises one eyebrow, holding a hand out flat so Lestrade can place the dvd case in it. He studies it briefly, not noticing any real difference from any of the other videos. A tawdry title with a terrible pun ( _Wet Dreams May Come_ ), an overly-airbrushed photo of the victim wearing a lurid chartreuse singlet on the front.

"Trust me, you'll get a kick out of it. Pay attention to his co-star." Rolling his eyes, Sherlock picks up the dvd in its slim little box and tucks it into the pocket of his coat.

"I still don't see why we're bothering with this, so far the videos have yielded nothing remotely useful."

Greg smiles, an unfamiliar twinkle in his eye that makes Sherlock mildly uncomfortable. "Just go home, put something comfortable on, put your feet up, grab a beer, and watch the damn video."

Sherlock merely sighs in exasperation and swans out of the office.

***

When he gets home, John is still infuriatingly absent, so Sherlock decides it's an opportune time to get the video-watching over and done with. He makes a point of ignoring Lestrade's advice about getting comfortable, resolutely keeping his suit jacket on and making himself a cup of coffee. This is about work, after all.

He opens the dvd player and removes one of John's ridiculous Bond films, intentionally leaving it data-side-up on the coffee table. If he happens to use it as a coaster, so be it. John's not here to watch his possessions, so they are fair game. He plops the porn film into the player and stalks over to the sofa, throwing himself onto it.

The film starts typically enough; some ridiculously contrived plot about a college student with a new dormitory roommate. The acting is stilted, the lighting is hideously unflattering, and the dialogue -- such as it is -- is completely laughable. Nothing remotely different from any of the other videos the victim had "starred" in. Why was Lestrade so insistent that Sherlock watch this tripe?

It all becomes apparent when the young man playing the new roommate walks in. He's relatively small in stature, with fair hair of an unusual and indescribable mixture of dusty brown and soft blonde. Deep blue-green-hazel eyes, fringed with ridiculously thick lashes. A mobile, friendly mouth, slightly thin lips, settled firmly under an upturned but wholly endearing nose. A face Sherlock is intimately familiar with, despite the owner of that face now being fifteen years older. What on earth is _John_ doing in this farce of a film?

Sherlock pauses, unsure about how to proceed. Is it even John, or simply some uncanny doppelganger? If it is indeed John, then surely he had a good reason. Money to study medicine, before he'd decided to join the military? Some ridiculous young man's lark? Why, especially, gay porn? John has always been determined to correct people about his sexuality...

He shakes his head. It must be a coincidence. Plagued by curiosity, he unpauses the film. Things only get worse when the roommate starts speaking. It's less than two minutes before the pseudo-John is mouthing obscenities against the victim's skin, using all sorts of terms that Sherlock would usually find crass and obnoxious. 

Instead, he's imagining John, his John, the proper John, doing it to him. Everything the actors are doing on screen, Sherlock's mind is mirroring. Before long, his cock -- usually conveniently placid and dormant -- is fully hard, throbbing and uncomfortable in his trousers. Without thinking, he undoes the front zip and tugs down his trousers along with his pants, groaning as the pressure is released. His fingers head straight for the hot exposed flesh, almost as if his arm has a mind of its own. He finds himself stroking the length of his erection gently, not masturbating properly, just enjoying the sensation of touch.

Typically, erections are something unpleasant that Sherlock deals with one of two ways. Either he ignores it until it goes away of its own accord, or if it is of the stubborn variety, he'll take care of things as quickly and efficiently as possible, and generally in the shower to avoid a mess.

This time though, his entire body is crying out to him, to stroke his stomach, to feel the pinch of his fingers on his nipples, to luxuriate in the contact. Before he has time to think about what he's doing, he's got his shirt undone and is laying down along the length of the sofa, his free hand mindlessly stroking along the lean planes of his abdomen as he slowly slides his fingertips along the length of his penis, mindlessly rolling the foreskin up and down over the swollen head. There shouldn't be any shame in engaging in an act of self-indulgent onanism now and again, should there?

On-screen, the victim is giving John -- at this point Sherlock realises he's come to refer to the actor as John, not as as doppelganger -- a blow-job. It should be sloppy and off-putting, but instead it's just making his cock throb and twitch even more forcefully. He's imagining the taste and texture of John's penis in his own mouth, imagining exploring the shape and size of John's testicles with his tongue. He's transfixed by the image on-screen.

It's at this point he notices it. Scattered over John's left hip bone are a scattering of birthmarks that bear a startling resemblance to the Southern Cross. Sherlock may not care much about the solar system, but there's an index of all the flags of the Commonwealth in the back of his head, and the flag of Australia comes rushing to the forefront.

Surely such an identifiable mark will be easy enough to confirm (or deny, as the case may be) whether this really is John. Sherlock will simply have to find an excuse to examine John's left hip. He's about to start plotting out ways to make this happen when the possibly-John on screen lets out a low, guttural moan.

Whipping his head back to the screen, Sherlock gets an eyeful, but not nearly so much as the other actor in the film. John -- and Sherlock's taken to thinking of him as confirmed to be John again -- is ejaculating forcefully, painting the murder victim's face with thick stripes of semen. The image should be thoroughly unpleasant, but suddenly Sherlock finds himself enormously jealous and somehow even more aroused.

With a whimper that would be undignifying if he were not alone, he tightens the grip on his prick and redoubles his pace, aggressively thrusting his hips and effectively fucking his own hand. He's transfixed by the film, by John's erection, still not flagging despite the violent orgasm, as it spreads the evidence of it across the other man's face. The head of his penis, flushed and bulbous, is spreading the come across the victim's face, and Sherlock can almost feel John's prick stroking his own cheekbones. He knows John fixates on them, surely he'd be happy to rub himself on Sherlock's face.

It's this image in his mind that pushes him over the edge. With one sharp, aborted cry, his body tenses, rising up off the sofa as he spills his seed all over his hand, some of it spurting across his chest. 

Panting, spots swimming in his vision as he opens his eyes, Sherlock slumps back down against the sofa. He's not sure whether it had to do with the increased visual stimulation, the extended physical contact, or his abnormally vivid imagination, but this orgasm was by far the most intense one Sherlock has experienced in a very long time. He's also perfectly content to just relax here, covered in his own sweat and semen, and try to hold onto the moment. Nothing about this wank, as John would likely have called it, is remotely like his usual perfunctory masturbation. Sherlock's surprised to find he rather likes it.

Eventually he catches his breath, and almost wistfully he grabs a tissue off the table at the end of the sofa and does his best to wipe himself up. He tucks the used tissues under the sofa and promptly forgets about them, but doesn't bother to tuck himself back into his pants or do up his shirt for the time being. 

Sherlock's hand hangs down onto the floor, his fingertips brushing the dvd case. Curious, he picks it up. A quick flip of the case and Sherlock checks the cast list, such as it is. "New Roomate" is played by someone with the ridiculously suggestive moniker _Ryder Ruff_. Good lord. Surely John -- if it is indeed John -- didn't choose the stage name himself. Even he's got more sense than that.

He's lost in thought, fingers running idly around his navel, skin still warm and sensitive, when he hears the familiar noises of the front door. Alarmed, he jumps off the sofa and makes a right mess of dressing himself, nearly pinching an incredibly awkward place with the zip on his trousers. He manages to get himself tucked in properly and does his shirt up, silently cursing the tiny buttons on his shirt.

Uncharacteristically uncoordinated, Sherlock stumbles across the room to get the disc out of the player and back into its case. Done, he lobs it across the lounge as if it's burnt him. Thankfully, it lands on the sofa and slips behind one of the cushions. Out of sight, out of mind. He spins around in place a couple of times, not entirely sure what he's looking for, and eventually gives up and flops down into his chair. Just in time, too, as John walks into the flat. He cocks his head and looks questioningly at Sherlock, who does his best to set his features into a mask of placid disinterest, but he can't help fidgeting awkwardly. He's sure John can tell exactly what he's just done, it must be written all over his face.

John takes off his coat and drapes it on one of the kitchen chairs, apparently oblivious. Sherlock takes a moment to admire the shape of John's torso, so much fitter and smoother than his bulky garments make him look. Maybe he'll get lucky, if John stretches he might raise the hem of his shirt enough to expose his hip. Sadly, he doesn't, but Sherlock continues studying the way John moves under his clothing. He shakes his head to clear his mind, hopefully before John has noticed him ogling.

"You alright there, Sherlock? You're acting a bit odd. I mean, odd for you. You're always a bit odd compared to everyone else."

"Nope. Not me, not at all. Everything's fine. Bored. Thinking." _Shut up_ , Sherlock thinks to himself. _Stop trying so hard._

"If you say so. I'm off to have a shower." John shrugs, and immediately, unwarranted, Sherlock's mind is filled with images of John, stark naked and dripping wet. The shower foam highlighting his muscles and the smooth curve of his arse, framing the tell-tale birthmark, darkening his pubic hair. Is it as fair and dusty as the hair on his head? Sherlock would like to think so. Scowling, he shakes his head again. How do ordinary people function with fantasies like this running through their heads all the time?!

The realisation dawns on Sherlock that this would be an ideal time to "accidentally" catch John in the nude. He knows John showers for ten to twelve minutes -- efficient by most standards but positively indulgent for an ex-Army man. Sherlock stares irritably at his watch. As illogical as it may be, he's convinced time is running more slowly than normal. He can't risk barging in too early, John will simply stay behind the shower curtain. If he's too late, John will already be covered by a damnable towel.

He heads into his own bedroom. Nothing abnormal about that. When he gets to the mottled glass door separating his sleeping quarters from the shared bathroom, he pauses, tightly gripping the door handle. He hears the sound of the water shutting off, sees the flutter of the curtain moving through the door, and seizes the opportunity. He shoves the door open.

"John! Excellent! You're done!"

"SHERLOCK!" John splutters, infuriatingly managing to hide himself with the edge of the shower curtain. "Bloody hell, give me a minute, would you? Pass me the towel?"

Sherlock pretends he didn't hear that last comment, hoping John will stretch out and attempt to reach it himself. "Hurry, John. I need you to do something for me." He does his best to look impatient and imperious, but John's having none of it today.

"I am not going anywhere until you hand me a god damned towel, Sherlock? What's wrong with you today?"

Sighing, Sherlock gives it up as a lost cause and throws the towel in John's general direction. He manages to grab it with one hand, keeping himself decent with the other still gripping the shower curtain.

"Now what the hell did you need me for so urgently?" John scowls, shaking droplets of water out of his hair in a way Sherlock finds aesthetically pleasing.

"Oh, I don't remember now. It wasn't important." With another sigh, Sherlock turns on his heel and steps out of the bathroom.

***

It's several days before Sherlock attempts to coax any more information out of John. Rather than the direct approach, he's decided to go about asking in a more subtle way.

They're sitting at the breakfast table. John's having a bit of a fry-up and Sherlock's nursing a cup of coffee. It's one of those sorts of moments that Sherlock always found irritating with other flatmates, the sorts he did his best to avoid entirely. With John, however, there's no useless small-talk, no unnecessary domesticity. Just an odd, comforting sense of quiet. Sherlock knows he's about to ruin that, but he needs answers.

"John..." he pauses for emphasis, and John looks up at him. "Have you ever been a rider?"

"I'm sorry?"

"A rider, John. Do pay attention? Did you ever get to enjoy the sensation of having all that raw power, those solid muscles shifting between your legs?"

John looks at Sherlock as if he's grown a second head. "Not all of us were posh twats like you when we were kids, Sherlock. It's not as if I ever had the opportunity. And besides, I don't know if I'd want to. I'm not sure I'd like being on top of something so intelligent and unpredictable."

Sherlock takes a large swallow of coffee in an attempt to cover the smirk on his face. Surely John hasn't figured out what he was insinuating, there's no way that double-entendre was intentional. He'll have to be more direct next time.

***

The next opportunity comes a week later, when John is stabbed with a letter opener while they are trying to track down a particularly smarmy and vile blackmailer. When they get back to the flat, Sherlock hovers in the doorway while John is standing at the sink, preparing some gauze and disinfectant. He's still wearing his shirt, which is damp with blood and clinging invitingly to his torso. Sherlock suspects finding that much blood so appealing-looking is probably abnormal, but he can't bring himself to pretend he cares.

"John, please allow me to help you with that." _And see your bare torso, the curve of your waist, the constellation on your hip..._

John looks pale, but the expression on his face is one of wary irritation, not one of discomfort.

"I'm fine, really, Sherlock. I know you mean well but you're more of a nuisance than an assistance most of the time."

"But what if--"

John silences him with a glare, and Sherlock notices the colour is back in his cheeks now. "But nothing, Sherlock. I am a doctor. You are an occasionally well-meaning but meddlesome pain in the arse. I'm fine, I promise. Go make some tea, I'll want it when I'm done."

Shoulders drooping in defeat, Sherlock slinks off to the kitchen to fill the kettle. He should probably empty it first, he doubts John would want human fingernails in his tea.

***

The next few weeks fly by in a flurry of unrelated cases. Normally during a period like this, Sherlock's mind would remain a lens, keeping everything in sharp focus, but more and more he's finding he's unable to concentrate. His eyes will wander from his microscope to John's profile as he reads quietly in the lounge. His mind, normally so clear and keen, is filled with a dizzying array of lewd and lurid imaginings. Of John, both with and without the tell-tale birthmark. The case of the porn actor was solved weeks ago, and yet Sherlock finds himself watching and re-watching the video whenever he's got the flat to himself.

John hasn't gone out with a new girlfriend once in this timeframe, which is both marvellous and awful. Sherlock's glad to have him nearby whenever he needs (or wants) him, but having John constantly so close at hand when Sherlock's dealing with this new sexual awareness of him is driving Sherlock to distraction. The lines between fantasy and reality are blurring, and he keeps having to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing John by the wrist, from running his fingers through John's hair -- in Sherlock's mind it's fine and silky, from grabbing him by the coat and pulling those smiling, mobile lips against Sherlock's own.

He masturbates more frequently than ever, the climaxes always as dizzying as that first one on the sofa. He feels logy, simple, and ordinary, but he's unable to concentrate on anything else for long periods unless he clears his mind -- and his body -- on a regular basis.

Lying on the sofa as the sun rises, gilding the edges of the buildings outside, he decides that he needs to determine once and for all whether John is the man in the video or not. Hopefully he's not, and proving it should end this ridiculous obsession Sherlock has developed with John's body. He stands up and straightens his spine, body rigid with determination. 

John should be getting up soon. As soon as Sherlock hears him shifting in bed, he will barge up those stairs and storm into John's room before he's had a chance to get dressed and come downstairs.

It's not long before he hears the signs he was waiting for. He climbs the stairs two or three at a time and finds himself at the landing outside John's room in what feels like mere seconds. He can hear John shuffling about on the other side of the door, hopefully stepping out of his pyjama bottoms. He shoves the door open.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelps, turning around before Sherlock has the opportunity to glance at his hip. Damnable military reflexes, Sherlock is furious at himself for not taking that into account. "I'm fucking naked, could you give me a second?"

Sherlock takes more time than should be acceptable to admire the lush curve of John's buttocks, the subtle musculature of his calves, the fine golden hair on his legs. If his hair is that pale, surely his pubic hair is as fair as Sherlock imagined it that first day. He feels a now-familiar stirring in his trousers and groans under his breath. Without a word, Sherlock turns and slides out the door, leaving a perplexed and irritated John in his wake.

***

Sherlock is lying on the sofa, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when his curiosity shifted into an acceptance of his complete and utter infatuation when the subject of that infatuation calls him from out in the hallway.

"Sherlock?" He sounds calm but somehow demanding at the same time, a trait that Sherlock has to admit he finds strangely attractive, coming from John. He'd never accept that sort of superior tone from anyone else. He grunts in acknowledgement and goes back to staring at the ceiling. He looks over when John's shadow falls like a heavy weight across him. John doesn't often loom like this, which further adds gravitas to what he says next.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you. I've figured out what's going on here."

Alarmed, Sherlock bolts upright and stares at him. Has he found the dvd case? He moves to the edge of the sofa and stands up, closing the space between them slightly.

"John. I can explain. It was for a --" he's abruptly cut off when John presses one fingertip to his lips. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek; it's all he can do to avoid pulling that fingertip into his mouth. To avoid tasting John's skin. To avoid mapping out the labyrinth of John's fingerprints with his tongue.

"Shush, would you? I'm not that dense, I've worked out that you've been trying to see me naked. At first I thought it was just some bizarre curiosity of yours, but you're usually quite blunt. If you just wanted to examine my body for some weird reason you'd normally have no problem just asking. You've been acting odder than usual lately. It all adds up."

Sherlock swallows. His tongue feels thick and wrong, a foreign body in his mouth. An awareness hits Sherlock; John knows that he has become infatuated. He's going to leave now.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." This is it. The big let-down. "I should have been more honest with you from the start. I've been stubbornly refusing to admit what's happening to me."

Wait, what? What's happening to _John_?

"I've been so desperate to convince everyone I wasn't gay. To convince everyone you're my friend, and nothing more. But if I'm being honest, I've been attracted to you from the start. I was unfair to myself, and more importantly, I've been unfair to you. I just have no idea how to handle this."

Sherlock blinks slowly as John finally pulls his finger away. He sucks in a huge gulp of air, he hadn't even realised he was holding his breath.

"John..." it comes out almost as a sigh. His brain, his lightning-quick, overpowered brain, is somehow still processing what John just said. He's usually fairly concise when he speaks, unlike his ridiculously flowery blog posts. It's a bit alarming to hear such a long, emotional speech from John _Runs Away From His Feelings_ Watson.

He must take too long to process his thoughts through this fog, because John is starting to look panicky.

"Sherlock... say something. Did I misunderstand? Oh god, I did, didn't? I know, all you care about is the work..."

"John." The words slip from Sherlock's lips, unbidden. "Shut up, you idiot."

Somehow, that must be the right thing to say, because John's eyes light up, and suddenly all Sherlock can think about is pulling John against him, kissing him, smelling him, feeling him. None of the thoughts crossing his mind are blatantly sexual. He just feels a desperate urge to _know_ John completely. To learn all of the secrets simmering just under his skin, the ones he's kept hidden for so long. Deep in his belly, Sherlock knows this isn't about the bloody porn video anymore. It hasn't been for a long time.

Before he can say anything else, John has taken the initiative and closed the space between them. Sherlock can feel the heat radiating off John's compact, wonderful, fascinating body and takes the final step that completely closes the space between them. He tilts his head down just a fraction, and John, understanding and certain now, tilts up to meet him.

The kiss is hesitant at first, a bit awkward. They don't fit together quite right, and Sherlock begins to panic. But John, clever, wonderful John, simply shifts the angle of his head a tiny bit and it's as if a spark goes off in the base of Sherlock's skull.

John's mouth is warm and soft and inviting, but his tongue is firm and decisive. He insinuates his way between Sherlock's lips, tender and forceful all at once. Sherlock's vaguely aware of some sense of pride in a conclusion confirmed, and he realises his fingers are sliding through John's hair. It's just as soft as he'd imagined it to be. Clearly John enjoys the sensation, he moans quietly against Sherlock's lips. The noise sends a crackle up Sherlock's spine, sets his heart to furious pounding in his throat. His entire body is trembling, and John seems to understand, he's running soothing hands up and down the length of Sherlock's back.

There's a sensation in Sherlock's pants that, for once, Sherlock entirely doesn't mind. In fact, he's quite pleased about it right now, and thinks that John should be made aware of the effect he's having. He rolls his hips, pressing himself against John, who breaks the kiss and lets out a quiet chuckle.

"You're much more responsive than I thought you'd be." He murmurs against the skin of Sherlock's throat, his hands sliding further down and lightly skimming Sherlock's arse. "Not that that's a bad thing. Not at all."

Sherlock can feel John against him, not nearly fully hard yet but definitely growing thicker. Haltingly, he brings one hand down between them. John seems to grasp what he's debating and nods slowly.

"God, yeah. Touch me, Sherlock. Please."

Spurred on by the raw need in John's voice, Sherlock reaches out and cups John's burgeoning erection in his hand. It's alarmingly hot and heavy-feeling, and Sherlock can feel the blood pulsing even through John's thick jeans. While he doesn't have a huge basis for comparison, it feels pleasingly large, especially in comparison to John's stature. His own prick is twitching and uncomfortable, confined within his own trousers, but Sherlock finds it impossible to put his own needs before John's. 

He's not entirely sure what to do so he just gently palms John through the jeans. It seems to be working, he can feel John's cock stretching to full hardness under his touch. It's a heady sensation, knowing he has this much control over John's body. His other hand slides forward and tugs the tails of John's shirt loose from his waistband, slides up under it, feeling the smooth skin of John's abdomen. John pulls in a sharp breath as Sherlock's hand explores, finding the soft trail of hair leading into his pants.

As Sherlock's hands stroke and explore, John's lips find their way to the pale flesh of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gives a wholly undignified whine and cants his head to the side, giving John a broader canvas on which to paint with his tongue.

Impatience overwhelms Sherlock and he tugs at the waistband of John's jeans, his intentions clear. John nods, his hair tickling Sherlock's neck as he does. Eagerly, Sherlock pulls John's zip open and tugs his jeans down slightly. The view that greets him is a sight to behold. 

Sherlock was right -- John is definitely above average in at least one physical department. The head of his cock, gorgeously flush and swollen, is already protruding not only from his foreskin but from the top of his pants as well. The shaft is thick, pulling away from his body slightly, as though desperate to reach out to Sherlock. The thought is ridiculous, fanciful, and tickles Sherlock in an entirely appropriate way.

As he's attempting to tug John's pants further down, John reaches up and starts wrestling with the tiny buttons on Sherlock's shirt, which currently feels tighter than usual. There's a moment or two of awkward fumbling when John has a genius idea. He grabs Sherlock's hands gently and places them on Sherlock's own shirt, and then proceeds to start undoing his own. Clearly things will go much more easily if they each work with familiar clothing, for the time being.

Sherlock manages to strip down to his pants before yet again being distracted by John's body. He's efficient, methodical about getting undressed, nothing remotely showy and yet Sherlock finds himself fascinated. When John gets down to his pants, which are currently doing a terrible job of keeping him decent, he smiles at Sherlock, kindly, warmly, and sits down on the edge of the sofa. Sherlock is torn, torn between staring at John's glowing face and the bulbous head of his prick, still peeking invitingly out of the top of his pants and now shining slightly at the head.

John must catch him staring, because he looks down at himself, bashfully and makes an awkward attempt at covering himself, hands resting between his legs.

"John, no, don't hide." The words slip from Sherlock's mouth, but he doesn't regret them. His body, as though moving on autopilot, moves to kneel between John's knees. He rests one cheek on the inside of John's thigh, the hair here even softer and paler than Sherlock could possibly have imagined. Tenderly, John reaches down and strokes Sherlock's other cheek with his thumb.

"You alright, Sherlock?"

Leave it to John to ask about Sherlock's well-being at a time like this.

"John, you might want to record this, because I doubt I will ever say it again. But I have no idea what I'm doing here."

Running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, John smiles.

"Whatever you do, Sherlock, whatever you _want_ to do, it'll be... perfect."

Sherlock studies John for a moment; first his face, and then a target much closer to Sherlock's own mouth. Tentatively, he leans forward and mouths the cotton covering John's balls. The whole area is warm and close, and Sherlock can feel his own moist breath through the cotton. John lets out a low, encouraging groan and tightens his grip on Sherlock's hair for a second before letting go.

Increasingly eager now, Sherlock slides his tongue up the impressive length of John's shaft, making sure to get the cotton good and damp. Once it's thoroughly soaked through, he breathes gently. He looks up at John, studying his face. His eyes are closed, jaw open and slack. John certainly seems to be enjoying himself.

Sherlock continues to tongue John through the wet fabric for a moment, but wanting to ensure John keeps enjoying himself and doesn't get bored, he soon pulls the pants down, freeing John completely. His cock is thick and dark, bouncing heavily as Sherlock frees it from its confines. There's a trickle of pre-ejaculate highlighting one thick vein and Sherlock can't help himself. His tongue darts out from between his lips and catches the drop before it falls into the soft nest of John's pubic hair. It's salty and bitter and yet somehow pleasing to Sherlock.

Clearly what's happening is pleasing to John too, as he lets out a trembling, quivering sigh. When Sherlock looks up again, he sees John staring down at him through those thick lashes, smiling fondly.

Eager to show off, to earn emphatic words of praise from John for something other than a deduction, Sherlock takes the head of John's erection fully into his mouth. It's alarmingly thick and heavy, larger than Sherlock had anticipated, but he's committed to riding this out. The musky, sharp scent of John's hormones and sweat, so close to his groin, is heady and overpowering, and seems to be encouraging Sherlock, calling to him.

He parts his lips even wider and runs his tongue along the ridge under the crown of John's penis. John groans softly and threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He's not being pushy or demanding, the touch is gentle and soothing. Emboldened by the contact, Sherlock purses his cheeks and slides his lips down the length of John's shaft. He feels a slow, warm pulse of pre-ejaculate against his tongue, clearly he's doing something right.

Unsure of what to do with his hands, Sherlock braces one against the taut muscle of John's thigh and brings the other one to the base of John's prick. He's expecting to find his lips are nearly at the base and is slightly alarmed when he realises there is nearly enough room for him to wrap his hand fully around John. Determined, he pumps his hand along the warm flesh a couple of times and attempts to take John's full length into his throat. There's a moment of satisfaction when he feels the head brushing the back of his throat.

He's vaguely aware of John trembling, murmuring encouraging endearments, which spurs Sherlock on further. He begins bobbing his head, trying in vain to remember what the actor in the film had done. His memory is vague and foggy, his mind too full of thoughts of _John, here, naked, willing_ to bother recalling details from something he feels as though he watched years ago.

Attempting to read John's reactions - heavy breathing, sheen of sweat on his abdomen, cock throbbing with rapid pulse against Sherlock's tongue - he determines the best course of action is to continue the deep, quick motions he's begun. John's grip in his hair tightens slightly, and Sherlock's own erection twitches eagerly. He's been almost unaware of his own arousal, and is startled to find his cock still painfully heavy, leaking copiously against his body. He's physically desperate, and yet his only thoughts are to please John.

He swallows deeply, and to his profound mortification, Sherlock gags. His eyes are watering, his nose is running, and he absolutely cannot take John in any deeper. This has rapidly turned into an abject failure, and Sherlock's frustration mounts. All he wants is to please John. John, who has stopped moaning, stopped complimenting Sherlock. His fingers have worked their way out of Sherlock's hair, moved down to stroke the infernal tears off Sherlock's cheek.

Gently, he coaxes Sherlock off of his erection, and Sherlock feels his heart fall into his stomach. He's failed miserably at something, and it rankles him immensely, as does the expectation that John will realise this has all been a terrible mistake.

"Sherlock. Hey, Sherlock? Look at me." Sherlock sweeps his eyes over John's body as he looks up. His erection has flagged slightly - it would be virtually unnoticeable to anyone other than Sherlock. "You've... you've never done that before, have you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Obviously not."

Infuriatingly, John laughs at this. "If it's any consolation, neither have I. Not to a penis, I mean."

Sherlock glowers and looks down into his lap. He's still maddeningly erect.

"Sherlock, look at me again, would you? You're panicking. It was perfect, it was fantastic. You just tried too hard. Too much, all at once." John gestures awkwardly at his penis. "It's..." He flushes, and Sherlock feels a strange pounding in his chest. Suddenly he wants to hug John, to kiss every inch of his face, not simply to fuck him. "It's a lot to take in. I don't know how to say that without sounding boastful, but it's not the first time it's happened. Usually when people see it they get excited, and then it's just... awkward."

There's a fire somewhere behind Sherlock's eyes, a monster rearing its ugly head, one he recognises immediately as jealously.

"Can we not talk about your invariably more talented and experienced lovers right now?"

"Shit, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I was trying to make you feel better. Didn't do a very good job, did I?"

Sherlock raises one eyebrow, oddly torn between getting up and leaving and knocking John backwards onto the sofa and snogging him senseless. He must be exceptionally transparent right now, because John smiles, the corners his eyes crinkling in a way that makes Sherlock absolutely crazy. His hand still on Sherlock's cheek, John gently guides him up off the ground. He shifts slightly, making room for Sherlock to sit next to him.

The whole situation should be absurd. They're both sitting here, still noticeably aroused; Sherlock moreso than John, but he notes with a small swell of pride that while John is not quite as erect as he was at the beginning of the disastrous attempt at fellatio but his cock is still engorged, still a sight to behold. It also feels a bit ridiculous to be sitting here like this, still entirely nude. Well, no, not entirely. Sherlock has just noticed that John is, for some reason, still wearing his watch. He stares at it, trying to figure out if it means something or it's simply that John hasn't bothered to remove it. He can't tell, and it frustrates him.

John turns sideways, to face Sherlock, and without thinking Sherlock does the same. He attempts to fold his hands in his lap, but ends up resting them on his prick. The temptation to touch himself proves to be too much so he moves his hands awkwardly to his thighs, which makes John giggle again. Sherlock finds it completely endearing, but he'd never willingly admit it.

"Oh shut up." 

"Nope. You're being oddly adorable right now."

Sherlock huffs, blowing through the damp curls of his fringe, which only serves to make John laugh even more.

"Sherlock?"

Something in John's voice has changed slightly. He still sounds breathless, ragged, aroused. But also somehow much more serious. Sherlock isn't sure he trusts himself not to be snarky, so he merely nods.

"Are you... do you want to keep doing this?" John gestures feebly between their bodies. It's evident he isn't merely talking about the physical aspect of what's going on. In lieu of a response, Sherlock leans forward, pressing his lips to John's. Considering not five minutes ago he had John's penis as far down his throat as he could get it, the gesture seems oddly naive and chaste, but it was apparently the right thing to do.

Immediately, he feels John's hands -- so solid and so warm -- firmly gripping him around the waist. John parts his lips and Sherlock slides his tongue between them. John's mouth is warm and inviting and perfect. Without breaking the kiss, John leans back, pulling Sherlock with him, so they are suddenly lying down on the sofa, legs entangled and Sherlock resting on John's chest.

Sensing John's arousal against him, Sherlock realises they are both fully hard again with a feeling of triumph. Instinctively, he grinds himself against John's hip bone. John breaks the kiss and Sherlock whines softly in the back of his throat.

"Mm, yeah, that's the idea. You okay with this?"

"I should think it's evident that I am more than okay, John."

"Git."

In retaliation, Sherlock shifts his weight so that his cock is aligned with John's, and gives his hips a solid jerk for good measure. He's rewarded with a sharp gasp from John.

For a few moments, they lie there, hips rolling gently as they learn to get the feel of each other. Every so often, John raises his torso in such a way that their nipples brush together and Sherlock finds himself burying his face in John's throat to stifle the strange noises he's making.

It's not long before the contact and the friction start to become a bit maddening, like trying to scratch an itch that's just out of reach. There's sweat pooling between their bodies and John's face and throat are flushed and beautiful, blood just under the surface. Sherlock wants to clamp his mouth down against that fragile skin and suck it all to the surface, watching the bruises bloom on John's skin, but catches himself in time. That sort of thing can wait.

Right now, he's certain he's going to go insane from the pressure in his groin. There's a fire, a weight of impending orgasm, but this motion is never going to be quite enough. Abruptly, as if John can read his mind for the thousandth time tonight, he feels a weight shifting under him. John has spread his legs slightly and wrapped his muscular thighs around the lean expanse of Sherlock's upper legs. His feet are braced against the sofa, just inside Sherlock's knees, effectively pinning him in place.

John's hands, which have been soothingly stroking Sherlock's sides and back, are now grabbing his arse as though it's a treasure he never wants to let go of, and Sherlock moans against John's collarbone. A pool of sweat has collected in John's suprasternal notch, and Sherlock can't help but taste it.

Gripping Sherlock tightly, John begins to thrust in earnest, causing their bodies -- and more importantly, their erections -- to grind tightly together. Sherlock rocks his hips, held firmly in place by John's legs. The pressure that has been building up in Sherlock's balls is about to come to a head, he can feel them growing tight and pulling up close to them. In all the times he's masturbated lately, never has an impending orgasm felt so promising and so overwhelming all at once.

"Oh god, John." He manages to spit out. "I'm... oh fuck..."

Something about the curse word seems to spur John, because he increases the force and the pressure of his hips, murmuring raggedly against Sherlock's ear. "Go on, Sherlock. I want to feel you come against me."

It's as if John's words have some sort of power over Sherlock, because the moment they're uttered, it's as though a rubber band has snapped somewhere inside of him, and the rushing sensation of release floods his entire body. His vision has gone grey and blurry, and he clamps his eyes shut as his muscles tremble and convulse. He's barely aware of his own prick, twitching violently against John's body, pulsing and spurting what seems like an impossible amount of ejaculate between them.

It's at that point Sherlock realises that John is coming too, their orgasms playing off each other, mingling in the confined space between their hips. 

Catching his breath, Sherlock flops down against John, who thankfully doesn't seem to mind at all. He's gone back to stroking the expanse of Sherlock's back, mindless, comforting little touches.

It's only as he's coming down from the haze of orgasm, breathless and panting, the surface of his skin still prickling as though he's been sunburnt, that Sherlock has an epiphany. He was so overwhelmed by the entire situation, by finally _being with John_ that he completely neglected to look for the birthmark. Unable to stifle his natural curiosity, Sherlock raises his body slightly off of John's and peers downwards. Both of John's hips are pale and smooth, covered in the combined evidence of their pleasure, but perfectly unmarred by any mark or scar. Satisfied, Sherlock exhales softly.

John, thankfully entirely misinterpreting Sherlock's motives, snickers.

"Didn't get a good enough look at it before? Or are you checking to make sure it's still there?" He runs his fingers down Sherlock's spine with a further post-coital intimacy that earlier, Sherlock would have assumed would make him prickle. Instead, he stretches into the contact and makes a noise that absolutely, positively does not sound like a purr of contentment, thank you very much.

To hide his embarrassment, Sherlock burrows his face into John's shoulder. It's surprisingly comfortable here even once the hormonal rush has abated, but suddenly John seems to disagree. He keeps shifting and fidgeting, as if he's trying to get out. Sherlock lifts his head and looks up at John.

"Is something the matter? Should I leave you alone?"

John smiles, warm and gentle, and it makes Sherlock feel a bit funny and wobbly, and suddenly grateful for the fact that he's lying down.

"Not at all, Sherlock. Just... hold on... something's digging into my hip..." He shifts his weight slightly and rummages down between the sofa cushions, triumphantly pulling out a slim, flat box with a vivid cover. Sherlock stares at the dvd in open-mouthed horror for a moment, stunned into silence.

John studies the box for a moment, looking thoroughly perplexed. "Wet Dreams May Come? Is this a gay porn flick? Sherlock, do you have any idea what the hell this is or where it came from?"


End file.
